“Mother of Five, Lost on Mountain.” That was the first headline I pictured, followed rapidly by “Mother of Five, Found Dead on Mountain.” And who might that mother be? None other than me, Vicky Schippers, intrepid walker and frequent hiker.
It was late August, and I had just dropped my youngest child off at Bates College in Lewiston. She was going to explore Acadia National Park before starting freshman classes in three days. The plan was that my husband and I would meet her then to help her move into her dorm. Meanwhile, I was now delightfully on my own.
Knowing I had these three days, I had pictured every minute. An inn, a lake, mountains dotted with trails to climb. I turned to the Internet, surfed a little and came up with the perfect inn, the perfect lake and the perfect mountain near Mt. Blue State Park.
But when I finally said goodbye to Virginia and headed toward my Shangri-La, I kept hearing, “Bye, Mom. I love you.”
My baby in college? I had gone through the same thing four times before with her siblings but there was always at least one still at home. Before I knew it, my vision was so blurry I had to pull the car over. This was not what I expected. I wanted jubilation but was experiencing bereavement. It didn’t help that the sky was getting dark and smelled ominously of rain.
When I reached the inn, the clouds had morphed into sheets of water. “Well, you seem to have chosen some wet days for your visit,” announced a chipper voice behind the front desk. “But those poor folks in New Orleans, well, we can’t complain, can we? There are a few shops up the way. Maybe you’d like to visit them tomorrow?” My slowly sinking spirits took a total nosedive. I missed my daughter and I wanted diversion. A few shops weren’t going to cut it.
“I understand you’ve got some beautiful trails near here,” I said. “Well yes, dear, but with this weather, you might want to reconsider hiking. As I said, the shops …”
“I’ll tell you what,” I countered. “Why don’t you show me a trail map and if it’s not too rainy tomorrow, maybe I’ll just take a short walk.” Looking dubious, she produced a map and drew arrows pointing the direction to the trail.
I spent the evening with crosswords, went to sleep early and woke up to thick clouds but not the steady drizzle of the previous night. I’ll give it a shot, I thought, to keep this trip from being a total loss. Before leaving the inn, I walked down to the lake. A fine mist had settled over it and I could hear muffled noises. I closed my eyes and tried to sort out what each of the sounds might be – a loon, a fish jumping, an oar cutting water? The air was so thick, it felt like I was inhaling gauze. But no rain, so off I went.
After a few missteps, I found myself at the trail head. I’ll just go a short way, I thought. Clutching the map in my hand, I started up. At first I navigated small rocks, taking care to keep the blue markers in sight. I was alone on the trail, and my mood lifted. Clouds, yes, thick ones and tree branches that kept tossing off the previous night’s rain. But I felt I was alone in a wonderland. So what if it was damp? So what if there would be no great vistas at the top? I was facing a challenge and, increasingly, I knew I wanted to make it all the way up.
Vicky’s vista
The pebbly trail slowly gave way to larger rocks, and then boulders. The pitch of the trail became steep. I was so engrossed in my effort that I didn’t notice when the rain first started again. And when I finally reached the summit an hour and a half after I had started, the payoff was huge. There stood an enchanting small lake, ringed by fir trees, mist rising off its surface. I felt like I was alone at the top of the world, and this jewel of a lake was mine. It was all the more perfect because there was no vista to be seen. There was just the lake and me wrapped together. I promptly dubbed it Lake Vicky. But reality intruded as large raindrops started to pelt me. I realized I should start back down and blowing a kiss at my namesake, I began my descent.
Was I still in a state of euphoria? Was I just careless? Was it the poor visibility? Whatever IT was, I missed a critical blue marker. It didn’t take me long to sense something was wrong. The brush was becoming increasingly thick and when I allowed myself to realize it, I knew that I was no longer on a trail.
My mind flooded with horrific images. How long before anyone knows I am missing? How long before there is no more light? How cold will it be tonight? I pushed away branches that slapped my face, not noticing the blood running from cuts on my bare arms and legs. I pictured myself exhausted and starved, huddled under a tree, hearing a noise and looking up to see a bear. And finally, I pictured those headlines.
For a half-hour, maybe more, I behaved like a crazy person. I hyperventilated. I raced here and there, anywhere there were fewer branches in my way, with no discernable purpose except to keep moving in a downward direction.
Then as if the branches had smacked me one too many times, my brain kicked into gear. “SLOW DOWN, THINK!” First I slowed my breathing, and then I looked around me. I heard a noise louder than the rain, a now overflowing stream to my left. I remembered the trail was named after that stream, and the stream had been on my left early in the hike. If, I reasoned, the stream was to the left of the trail going up and it was still on my left, I was on the wrong side now. With a rush of adrenaline, I began sloshing across it, slipping on rocks and sinking knee deep in the water. Once across, I grabbed hold of branches and hoisted myself out of the creek bed. By now, I was thoroughly drenched.
On the other side, I vowed not to panic. From the pitch of the terrain, I believed I must be closer to the bottom than the top. For the next few minutes, I continued descending, slapping away branches, kicking at rocks and never letting the stream out of my sight until – I wasn’t sure, but it seemed there was a clearing. I moved toward it, afraid even to hope. I don’t know if I saw the blue marker or the wide trail first. What I do know is I ran to the tree with the marker and hugged it. Then I cried.
The rest was easy, and I was back at the inn in less than an hour. “Hi, dearie, did you visit the shops?” Ms. Chipper began and then gaped. “What happened?” For the first time, I looked down at myself, soaked and bloody. “It’s a long story,” I started, “but all’s well that ends well, as they say.”
Clichés hold up because they usually have more than a grain of truth. So yes, “All’s well that ends well.” I was alive and not really much worse for the wear. But I was careless. I was way too cavalier about my own capabilities in the face of Maine’s majestic and challenging terrain.
I won’t make that mistake again.
Vicky Schippers of Brooklyn Heights, N.Y., has five children, the youngest of whom is a freshman at Bates College. A former grant writer, she now volunteers as a labor and delivery doula and a first-grade tutor for disadvantaged children. She is an avid (though humbled) hiker.
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